


Static

by alifletcher2010



Series: The Art of Healing [2]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Depression, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-09-01 02:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20250310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alifletcher2010/pseuds/alifletcher2010
Summary: Feyre used to be full of colors.But now she was just static.A companion piece to Work. Eat. Sleep.





	Static

Feyre used to be full of colors.

So filled with colors she couldn’t contain them. Sometimes they would slip out, a doodle here, a sketch there. But other times they would burst out in vibrant paintings that spanned the entire house.

Her soul was full of them. The saffron of crocuses, the violet of pansies, the blush of a newly opened rose. Vibrant blues, darker than the night, lighter than the day. And so so many more, of every shade and hue in the world around her.

Nesta only growled and grouched when Feyre painted, fussing about the expense of her paints, though Feyre had earned the money herself. Elain would only give her work patronizing looks, before going on with whatever task she had to do. And her father...he was too far gone into his drink, numb before the television every night to pay her any attention at all.  
-

With Tamlin, the world became red. Reds of every form.

First it was the flush of lust on her cheeks that all the world could see. It quickly deepened to the dark rosy red of desire and passion and want and need. The red of stolen glances and hurried kisses, of lingering touches, and nights wrapped so tightly in each other they were one person.

But that passion fueled something twisted inside of him and the red of desire became the crimson of pain, mottled across her skin. It became the deep garnet of blood and gore and agony. So much agony.

And suddenly, red was tainted, evil. It consumed her. She couldn’t get it _out_. It ate away at her soul, until there was nothing left, no more colors, nothing but the yawning pit of the unending horrors of that red.  
-

And then eventually, the red left too. It all was gone. There were no colors. Not anymore.

She wasn’t empty. Not really. Just _blank_.

Static.

She was static. Something to fill the void that the colors created in her. But nothing more than that.

Meaningless.

Useless.

Just static.

-

Months passed.

And Feyre was still static.

She wasn’t feeling. She wasn’t living. But at least she was alive.

Or at least that’s what she told herself, after every false smile she gave. After she assured her friends over and over that she was fine.

Because Feyre was _fine_. Really. Because static was better than feeling.

Wasn’t it?

-

Feyre didn’t know how she wound up here. Mor had suggested she start painting again and Feyre had refused. She had ignored the gifts of paints and brushes that appeared in her room. Ignored the flyers for classes that were slipped under her door. Ignored her friend’s pleading to just live for once.

But when Mor signed Feyre up to teach a painting classes for survivors of trauma, Feyre couldn’t say no. Couldn’t find an excuse that didn’t feel weak and flimsy on her tongue.

So here she stood, somehow supposed to help these people, who were as lost as she was, somehow _heal_...it was overwhelming. Feyre felt wholly unqualified. She felt like a farce. A fake. A hypocrite. How could she even pretend to know how to help these people heal, when she was barely holding herself together?

She couldn’t. 

So instead she took a deep breath and did the only thing she could. 

She spoke her truth.

“I can’t begin to tell you how to heal. I know I’m not healed. Most days, I’ll be honest, I can’t even look at my paints. I can’t get up here and tell you that you will be like you used to be, because you won’t. You will never be the same. But what I can tell you, is that it's ok. It’s ok to be a little broken and a little lost. That’s what this space is for. For us who hide behind masks of wholeness, who feel like we have to hide those broken, jagged edges of ourselves from those around us, who could never begin to comprehend our pain.” 

Tears threatened to fall and Feyre’s voice shook, but she continued on. “I can do that. I can give you a space in which you are safe. In which you are not alone. So paint, if you can. Or don’t. Do want your path of healing requires. But whatever you do tonight, know that you are not alone.”

Brushes went up all around the classroom and paint met canvas. More painted than Feyre even imagined would. And for the first time in a very long time, Feyre saw the gold glimmer of hope.

-

They came back. Slowly. She began to feel the melancholy navy of sadness, the brilliant chartreuse of life and growth. And even once, the glowing, sunshine yellow of happiness.

But the colors didn’t really start coming back until _he_ came.

When Mor’s cousin first came to her class, Feyre couldn’t help but notice that he was, well, stunning. The steep slope of his jaw, his dark skin, his ebony hair that was tousled and unkempt...her fingers itched to paint in a way they hadn’t in months.

Rhys was pitch black. There was no other color that could even come close to fitting him. The raven of night, unknowable and unending, and yet comforting. Black was always thought of to be full of horrors and shadows and nightmare. But in the inky expanse of black, Feyre also saw comfort, renewal. The touches of lovers, too shy for the brightness, for in the dark they found courage. Black was the hidden place someone could accept their full self, that self they could never have the bravery to show the light of day. Black was the washing away of the sins of day, remade in the blank slate of the night. Black was death, but what was death, but the next step after life in the great unending cycle of time? Darkness was as necessary as light. It was the chance be remade, renewed, reformed into something new, in that continuous cycle that was life and death, day and night, light and dark.

But he was not just that shadowy black. Feyre also recognized in him the same profound blankness that she was still fighting her way out of. She saw it in the slump of his shoulders as he sat staring, unblinking at the canvas in front of him. She saw it in the way his eyes did not quite meet the gaze of those around him.

Rhys was full of static. Just as she had been.

He was so full of static he couldn’t see that beauty of his darkness.

But Feyre did.

And her hands flew across the canvas as they never had before, painting him, again and again.  
-

White was the moment he tucked her into his arm at the bar. It was a new beginning after the renewal of night. A shining white of something new and unknown, but good and hopeful and thrilling.

And pink was the flush his smile brought to her face. Many times.

  
Yellow was all the time now. _Happiness._ It was everywhere. It was in the soft daffodil yellow of watching him heal, little by little. It was in the warm honey feeling of being able to pick up a brush and just be able to paint without fear. It was in the sunshiney glow of sitting back and smelling the air and feeling the rain. 

Neither of them were static anymore. They were truly _alive._

Rhys waited for her now, after every class. They were on the cusp of something, something new and shiny silver. She buzzed around the classroom hoping to finish up cleaning so she could walk home with him. She packed her latest painting away and turned back to put away her paints to find them already neatly stowed.

She smiled at her helper and his violet eyes flashed as he gave her a mischievous smile.

“You were taking too long, Feyre Darling.” Feyre only rolled her eyes at him; she had long ago given up on getting him to stop calling her that and found ignoring him was the only way to deal with it.

“Are you ready to head home?” she asked. But instead of giving his typical smart reply, Rhys shook his head and stepped closer.

“No...there’s something... something I’ve been meaning to do. And if I don’t now, I think I might never have the courage.”

His hands reached up and gently grasped her cheeks, bringing her face close to his. He bent down low and gently pressed his lips to her.

His kiss. It was the beautiful blue sliver of starlight. It was life and light and hope and joy and _love._

It was love.


End file.
